


mickey milkovich’s summer shit list

by honeykaspbrak



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Blowjobs, Drinking, Drug Use, Fluff, M/M, Masturbation, Romance, Sex, Sexual Content, Sibling Love, Smoking, What's new, dumbass mickey, gettin in trouble and having fun, handjobs, hopefully, just friends chilling on the south side in summer, mandy and ian’s friendship is the only good thing in this cold world, other kinds of love, semisweet mickey milkovich, set after s1 i guess ?? not super canon fitting, summertime, video games - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-05-30 08:05:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15092597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeykaspbrak/pseuds/honeykaspbrak
Summary: mickey milkovich can count the things he really loves on one hand. beer. weed. his little sister mandy. ian gallagher does not make the list. not even close.(or, a summertime fic chronicling the gallaghers and milkovichs when mickey and mandy were still repping south side and everything wasn’t terrible.)





	1. as much as i’m longing for syphilis

mickey hates the fuck out of summer, for reasons he mostly can’t even justify. on one level, he guesses it’s better than the gross chicago winters where the streets turn to treacherous slush and it’s too cold to go out so he and mandy end up going fucking stir crazy in the house playing cards and call of duty. but summer is just the opposite side of the same coin, sweltering and muggy with hordes of mosquitoes that come out just as it finally gets cool enough in the evenings to step onto the concrete. and summer means working because there’s no school he can halfheartedly pretend to attend, so his mom and dad, in their once-a-year show of convoluted parental care (ha), force him into a job. and the pool is always gross and filled with little kids (half of them the fucking gallaghers) and no where on the south side has AC that actually works. so, yeah, mickey can’t stand the summer either. what he really likes is fall. weird drizzly rain that’s still sort of warm and the promise of epic halloween-night hazing. october is the greatest. but fuck summer. 

he’s laying on his back on the floor, sweating and shirtless, when mandy kicks his door open in tall slutty heels that actually more or less work on her. 

“the fuck?” he demands of her, more out of habit than any real annoyance. 

“the gallaghers set up their pool, asshole.” she’s wearing some black eye makeup that hasn’t been sweated off yet, and a cutoff tank top that may have been mickey’s at one point. he assumes she’s dressed up to see her fakey fag boyfriend. as if anyone actually believes their act, and as if that makeup won’t just end up gunking up the pool water along with boogers and kid piss (maybe frank piss too). 

anyways, no thanks, mickey can think of ten to twelve things more fun than trudging over to the gallagher circus in the heat of the day. and several of those things include cleaning his toilet and/or sweeping up terry’s toenails. 

“as much as i’m longing for syphilis, i think i’m gonna stay here.” mandy delivers a halfhearted kick with her strappy heel to his calf. 

“you can’t even get syphilis through water. i don’t think. just fuckin’ come.” she gets this stupid smirk on her face and mickey can just tell she’s about to say something embarrassing. he covers his face with his sweaty hands preemptively. “ian will be there.” whoomp, there it is. it was most definitely a mistake for gallagher to mention it to her. mickey’s over wanting to bash his brains out about it (after all, she is his best friend and pretend lady, he couldn’t have expected ian to hold out forever), but that doesn’t mean he’s happy that she knows. 

“oh my god, mands. how many fucking times do i have to tell you.” she’s laughing now, dodging his wayward kicks. “we’re not in love. he ain’t my boyfriend. so unless you want me to suck his dick in the gallagher’s above ground pool, i don’t fuckin’ care if he’s there.” mandy cackles again, annoying as fuck, and tosses an empty beer can at mickey’s chest. 

“you’re telling me you don’t wanna see him shirtless? he’s fucking chiseled.” like mickey hasn’t already been picturing that. 

“yeah, asshole, i know. i’m willing to bet i’ve seen him shirtless more than you have.” mandy rolls her eyes, lets out this huge dramatic sigh that mickey would give her a titty twister for if he could be bothered to sit up. 

“still can’t believe you stole my fake boyfriend.”

“you fuckin’ knew he was fake the whole time.” 

“yeah, but... i didn’t think that meant you were gonna start fucking him.” mickey is ready for her to leave, both because talking about his sex life with her (or anyone, for that matter) ranks about as low on his list of hobbies as doing quantum physics with lip gallagher (prick), and because now he’s _thinking_ about aforementioned sex life, and, well. he sits up enough to swat her leg. she sighs again, swats him back. 

“fine, suit yourself. i’ll tell ian you’re here... thinking about him.” she cocks a brow up as mickey throws a beer can at her torso. “shit, i’m _going_.”

never mind that mickey _is_ here thinking about ian gallagher. never mind that he rubs one out quick as hell in the bathroom after mandy slams the front door while pressing his fingers hard into a big bruising hickey ian left on his chest last night. fuck. jesus. mickey might get off on pain and the memory of being dominated, but fuck if that makes him anyone’s bitch. gallagher _wishes_. 

mandy texts him a picture from the gallagher’s backyard about an hour later. it’s her in a bikini top, eyeliner predictably smeared down her face, smiling wide as hell with ian’s arm slung around her shoulders. he’s bare chested and glimmery from water, and new freckles are popping out over his shoulders. huh. oh, and lip is in the background, flashing a peace sign and ruining the photo as a whole. that doesn’t stop mickey from saving it to his camera roll and cropping it down to just firecrotch, though. whatever. 

—

when mandy arrives home late enough in the evening that the sun’s begun to go down, she’s three shades more tan and sporting a hickey on her shoulder that she clearly thinks mickey is too unobservant to notice. fucking lip gallagher, probably, or one of his dicky friends. mandy can handle herself, though. he’s not worried. 

they lay around on the couch and watch an infomercial about a fat-free deep fryer that’s, somehow, forty five minutes long and surprisingly attention-grabbing. mandy makes pizza bagels once the sun has gone fully down and they’ve opened enough windows to cool the house to an acceptable oven-using temperature. all in all, a typical summer night. and a not half bad one, mickey could admit. 

he’d never dream of telling her, but mick is pretty fucking fond of his little sister at this point. it may have taken a solid fourteen years, but once she grew out of her running-to-dad phase for good and mickey could tease her without getting tattled on and his ass kicked, she actually got fun enough to hang out with. and she makes a mean pizza bagel. 

but then she’s yelling from the kitchen, “hey, mick, i’m gonna invite ian over. he loves pizza bagels.” and mickey is silently cursing and mashing his head into the couch cushions because, jesus, he knows gallagher and all that’ll come out of that is ian groping mickey’s thigh unabashedly as he tries to play COD until mickey gets hard and has to sit through the rest of the evening with a pillow on his lap. it’s fucking infuriating. but he can hear mandy already dialing ian’s number on her phone, so, fuck, mickey might as well settle in for a night of blue balls. 

ian crushes mickey at call of duty that night, but only because of how all mick’s blood and focus is in his erection. nothing to do with actual skill level, nothing at all. 

when ian gets up to leave, he presses a chaste kiss onto mandy’s cheek as she hugs him goodbye. he has the nerve to glance over at mickey when he stands back up, as if he’s considering giving him one too. mickey shoots him a look that he hopes properly conveys, “try it and i’ll cut your balls off.” it seems to. ian just winks at him instead (jesus, that’s gay) and it’s not like mickey falls asleep picturing it.


	2. god, he’s cockblocking himself

mickey needs to cool down. 

barely a moment at home and terry already has a bug up his ass about mickey’s working hours (“they can’t keep you there till the evenings? you fucking kids, always underfoot. should’ve had you sucked right out of your fucking mother when we could.”) and the state of the house (“i bust my ass for this family all day and don’t even get to come home to dinner? or my laundry done? what happened to a man’s home is his castle?”). if you could call getting too plastered to speak at the back of the alibi room busting your ass than sure, terry is world-class. 

mickey stands still and takes it because he knows from personal experience that getting mouthy when terry is like this always results in a fist to the face, sometimes in a pistol whipping that might leave him pissing blood for days. mickey might be a dumbass who didn’t finish seventh grade, but he knows better than to risk that. 

so he keeps his face placid and empty and focuses on this morning, when he and mandy and ian were in the backyard, the two of them hanging laundry out to dry on lines the crisscross from the back porch to the garage, mickey drinking a beer and stealing glances at gallagher in the early-day sun. there was no real reason for him to be out there (“if you’re not gonna help, fuck off, asswipe,”) but ian put a hand on mandy’s arm and gave her this devastating smile and she didn’t say anything more about it. and that’s what mickey thinks about, plays over and over in his mind, until terry runs out of steam and stalks off to the kitchen for a beer or six. 

smell of laundry detergent and the smoke of the cigarette ian and mandy were passing back and forth. soft sun slanting through straggly trees. ian’s smile, his idle conversation with mandy about god-knows-what, mickey more than happy to sit there silent and take it all in. 

more and more, gallagher is the one that sustains mickey through this sort of bullshit. and that’s dangerous, there’s no way it isn’t. 

but mickey doesn’t want to think about that. and he needs to cool off. 

—

he ends up on the top floor of that huge ass abandoned warehouse twenty blocks deeper into the yards, the one that you can get into by climbing through a broken back window. he brings a joint and a pistol and his most shit-kicking attitude (nothing like firing off a few rounds into crumbly brick to work out a little stress).

he’s sweating and thirsty by the time he’s climbed the half-rotting stairs to the top, where most of the windows are completely broken out from the frames, giving the muggy breeze leeway to whistle through the wide-open room. 

_bam. bam bam bam._ it makes his ears ring, his head clear. summons up an image of fucking ROTC ian gallagher, in full uniform, pounding him in an alley on the way home from training. heh. nice. _bam bam bam bam._ mickey wonders if ian knows that the way he looks all suited-up and american-pie in his camo makes sick-headed mickey want to spit on his face and lick it off. 

he’s so fucking clean. mickey doesn’t know how anyone that put together, that pretty-boy, wants anything to do with him. ( _innocent_ flashes through mickey’s mind as a descriptor in the half second before he remembers about kash and how ian wasn’t a day over _fourteen_ when that whole mess started. he knows better than to say anything about it to ian, though; he’s in no position to talk about morality and the law, none at all. that doesn’t mean he and mandy haven’t had half-desperate whispered discussions about it, filled with worry for ian’s sanity and kash’s seemingly-inevitable jail time.) 

_bam._

it’s kinda lonely up here, mickey hates to admit. he wishes, annoyingly enough, that his sister and her redhead queer were hanging around, smoking out the giant windows and gossiping like twelve year girls. but mandy hates being around mickey when he’s shooting, not something he can really blame her for. there’s only so many bullets an elementary schooler can hear her father put through the walls of their house before the sound alone makes her breathe hard and funny. 

(mickey wishes he could’ve done more to protect her when they were young. he is the big brother, after all. but, god, realistically he knows that there’s nothing his skinny little-boy frame could’ve done to terry that would make her stop shaking on the foot of her bed. 

he’s not especially angry at how he’s been fucked up by living in that house. he figures it would’ve been this way for him anyways. but mandy, she could’ve made it out. she’s so fucking smart, charismatic and quick thinking. she could’ve gone far, but that house curses its occupants and mickey knows, deep inside, that neither of them will ever leave this place. 

and it’s not like he’d ever _tell_ mandy any of that. leave the faggy feelings shit to gallagher.)

 _bam!_ the clip is empty and mickey doesn’t have it in him to reload it. what he does have it in him to do: fish the sloppily-rolled joint from his pocket and light up, laying on his back in the middle of the light-soaked room with the unloaded pistol sitting on the floor beside him. 

“milkovich.” the voice almost makes him crap his pants in the millisecond before he recognizes it as fucking ian’s. he rolls onto his stomach (which absolutely isn’t secretly jumping for something that could pass as joy) and sees firecrotch himself standing in the doorway with a dopey grin on his face. 

“what the fuck, gallagher?” it doesn’t even sound hostile. mickey is losing his edge. 

“thought i might find you here.” that sentence, said with such casual ease, makes mickey’s stomach turn (not unpleasantly). that sentence means that ian knows things about him, knows and remembers things. which is equal parts scary and thrilling. 

“huh.” mickey can’t believe how fucking lame he is, how bad at making conversation. there’s a reason none of his lays before ian were anything more than a lay. not that ian is either, but with this lay there’s an amount of _talking_ that mickey feels he isn’t ever prepared for. gallagher makes him stupidly quiet and nervous. fucking idiot. “looks like you were right.” he wants to punch himself in the face. that the best you could come up with, milkovich? god. 

ian, to his credit, smiles anyways and slinks down onto the floor at a healthy distance from mickey. he moves in this weird fluid way, like an oversized cat. it makes mickey want to laugh. that’s another unusual thing. the wanting to laugh - fairly unsettling. 

“yo.” ian mumbles, and when mickey snaps out of his thick-headed stupor, he sees that he’s reaching for the blunt. mickey takes one more drag, holds it all in his lungs, and passes the smoke to ian. he blows out as hard as he can towards the ceiling. goodbye, emotions. 

“where’s mandy?” god, he’s cockblocking himself, now. bringing up family members. 

“some diner her friend works at flooded. she texted and said mandy could make like 25 bucks if she came and helped clean up for a few hours.” mandy has connections, that mickey has to admit. 

“she can buy us some fuckin’ dinner, then.” mickey hates it as soon as he says it, because he knows it sounds like an invitation for gallagher to stay. as if mickey is lumping him into his household. _not_ what he’s trying to do. even if nights on the end of the couch, listening to ian and mandy bicker over which made-for-tv piece of shit to watch, are easy to fall into. easy and nice.

“what you doing out here?” ian says through a mouthful of smoke. mickey realizes he’s been unconsciously watching him, the way his green t-shirt sort of ripples as his chest rises and falls with his breathing. and here’s what he sort of can’t stand about ian; he asks questions, wants people to explain themselves, wants to know what’s happening in the mind of others. and that’s not mickey’s thing. 

“i guess waiting for you to get your ass up here to get on me.” mickey isn’t sure he’ll say it until it leaves his mouth in a head rush. does it sound gay? definitely, but mickey decides that it doesn’t matter so much when ian is looking at him like he’s a piece of meat, with his tongue sliding over his bottom lip. 

ian could look at mickey like that forever and a day and mickey doesn’t think he’d ever get bored of it. 

he barely moves, barely shifts a leg, and then ian is lunging on top of him, pinning him down with a hand to each of mickey’s shoulders. it actually reminds mickey of that very first time they fucked, in mickey’s bed, only with the positions reversed. mickey can admit that he prefers to be down here. 

he lets out a laugh that is less of a laugh and more of a cut-off bark. he’s hard enough already - he doesn’t know what’s on gallagher’s hands that has that effect on him, but jesus. 

“you gonna do something? or sit there?” he knows from experience that goading the shit out of ian is the best way to guarantee a fucking that’ll make it noticeably difficult to sit down the next day. ian might look soft as baby shit, but he’s still south side through and through. and he’s taking off mickey’s shirt. good god. 

“mandy said you might be a little wound up. want me to help you with that?” god, again with his _sister_. but mickey can ignore it because gallagher, fucking impossibly hot in the slatted sunlight that throws a glow over his freckled torso, has his hands inside mickey’s jeans. 

mickey lets his head fall back, hitting the ground with a solid thunk. he lets his leg be thrown over ian’s shoulder. he lets gallagher kiss his neck as he slides into him painfully slow, then painfully fast. it’s probably an accident. they never kiss outside of sex, and rarely inside, but mickey brushes it off. ian’s hand creeps over his own. he’s making noise, but not very much, and mickey is biting down hard enough on his own lips to draw blood. 

ian gets a hand around mickey’s cock and pumps it a few times, and that makes mickey cry out a little aloud. which, judging by the smirk on his face, is what goddamn gallagher wanted the whole fucking time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the thing is ... i love them. and i love you guys for reading. and i love sweet sweet validation (cough, comments).


	3. your nose isn’t broken, you’re lucky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mands doesn’t need protection, but it’s still sweet when her fav boys give it to her. I hope u all enjoy!!

jesus fucking christ. mickey has been awake for all of thirty seconds, was in the middle of stretching and scratching his balls, and ian gallagher has already busted through the open back door with his hands wrapped around somebody’s throat. 

mickey heard the crash of the screen door hitting the paneling of the house, then the thunk of a body (bodies?) hitting the kitchen floor, but those sounds aren’t unusual in the milkovich house. most likely iggy and terry dueling over a blunt, some shit like that. so it’s mandy’s yell, high-pitched and explicit, that tips him off to something worse and sends him reeling out of his room with sleep still clouding his eyes. 

and there he is, fucking private ryan, trying to kill some goddamn kid in mickey’s kitchen. holy _fuck_. ian is on top of the kid, holding him down in some complicated knee-to-ribs hand-to-throat triangulation that’s definitely an ROTC move, fuck him. the kid is hollering, something that sounds like “ _i’m sorry! mandy, i’m sorry, call your bitch off!_ ” 

_ah._ if this involves mandy’s honor, mickey has few qualms about ian giving the kid (who mickey half-recognizes from a class he mostly didn’t take in middle school) the beating of his life. but, he’d prefer not to mop up blood off the kitchen floor, and mandy is hollering at him to break it up. so, with a yell, mickey jumps into the fray. 

he catches a fist to the face (ian) and a half-hearted knee to the groin (the kid) before he manages to haul ian off and get him pushed back against the counter. 

“gallagher, what the _fuck_?” mickey demands. his cheekbone might bruise from ian’s punch, but he feels relatively unscathed. ian is sweating and breathing like he’s run a 5k, and his lower lip and nose are gushing blood. he’s gonna have a hell of a shiner on his left eye, mickey can already tell. the kid is still laying on the floor, whimpering. he looks worse off than ian, by a large margin, but that’s not surprising. mandy grabs a rag from the counter and tosses it at the kid, eyes narrowed.

“just _get out_.” ian hisses at him. “and if you come near her again you won’t get off that easy.” the kid scrambles off the floor, hand pressed to his ribs and rag pressed to his face, and stumbles out the back door. he’s definitely crying. 

“ _jesus,_ ian.” mandy says, stepping across the blood-splattered floor to take his chin roughly in her hand and turn his face from side to side, inspecting the damage. 

“ _ow,_ fuck, mandy!” mickey realizes he probably doesn’t have to keep restraining ian, and lets his arms go.

“your nose isn’t broken.” mandy says, prodding at ian’s cheeks. “you’re lucky.”

“can someone fill me the fuck in?” mickey interjects. there’s always _something_ with these two, god. 

mandy rolls her eyes. “he grabbed me, but it wasn’t a big deal, and _this_ one over here-“

“it was fucking well a big deal!” ian butts in, tearing a hand through his messed-up hair with a hand that’ll bruise bad. “he grabbed her ass, _under her skirt._ ” 

“ _christ_ , mands, then he deserved it! the fuck are you so riled about?” mickey’s itching to run after the kid and top him off with a little taste of milkovich medicine. instead, he turns to the fridge and finds a bottle of beer. 

“i’m just fucking used to it, okay?” her voice is more tired than anything, and mickey can see ian visibly soften. “it’s not worth it, trying to fuck up everyone who’s ever been gross to me.” 

fuck. mickey has seen the stuff mandy is put through, he’s roughed up plenty of assholes for it, but the fact that she’s just _accepting_ it at this point sort of knocks the wind out of him. 

“mands...” ian murmurs, reaches for her hand. “that’s shitty. i’m sorry.” mandy looks sort of teary. mickey hopes to god she doesn’t cry, both because he never knows how to deal with that and because it’s one of the few things that puts mickey in danger of being emotional towards her. 

ian hugs her, rubs her back, and mickey sort of feels like he shouldn’t be watching. it’s a kind of intimacy he’s never had with either of them. when mandy pulls back, her mascara is smudgy around her eyes. 

“i appreciate it, though. don’t think i don’t.” ian smiles at her, this toothy, heartbreaking grin. (mickey’s never seen ian smile at him like that.)

“you’re my best friend. of course.” he says, and jesus, its all so sickeningly sappy that mickey has to ruin the moment by pretending to stick a finger down his throat. mandy reaches out around ian to shove him in the shoulder, and then all three of them are dissolving into helpless laughter. because it’s barely ten in the morning, and because ian’s face is all bloody and fucked up, and because mickey isn’t even wearing a goddamn shirt and he’s already drinking a beer and because it’s all so fucked up but they have each other. 

ian half-turns and gets the arm that isn’t around mandy’s waist looped over mickey’s shoulder, so that they’re all standing in a huddled, bloody group hug in the sunny kitchen.

mickey doesn’t try to fight it, not even when ian’s big, bony hand grabs at his ass.

—

they end up walking to the corner store for breakfast food (not the kash-and-grab, because mickey hates going in there - and _not_ because he’s jealous, it just doesn’t work for him, okay?). ian changed out of his bloody shirt into one of mickey’s, which he surrendered reluctantly, and he and mandy are walking ahead on the sidewalk, holding hands and swinging their arms like kids.

if ian wasn’t a massive fag, and if mickey wasn’t riding his dick, he’d want mandy to be with him. they love each other, clearly, in a way that mickey won’t pretend to understand. he makes mandy happy. 

she turns to mickey, eyes sparkly, albeit still raccoon-like from her makeup. it makes him remember a conversation he had with ian a few weeks ago, sitting on the couch in his house when mandy had gone upstairs to use the bathroom.

“your sister’s so pretty.” ian had been high, and mickey thought he was the pretty one, all relaxed and blissed out.

“hetero much?” mickey snorted, taking the blunt from him.

“just cause i’m gay doesn’t mean i’m blind. she’s a catch.” mickey remembers thinking that ian sees mandy more than he ever has. he’s not a good brother, but he never claimed to be.

mandy bounces him back into the present when she speaks: “we’re thinking freezer pizza and those weird cinnamon rolls that you microwave and tear off.” she says, and she sounds happy. gallagher is smiling back at him too. 

“for breakfast?” mickey asks, because he has to be an asshole about everything.

“or i could just eat that ass.” ian says through barely-contained laughter like he’s making the funniest joke of the century. mandy gasps out an _ew!_ and mickey pretend-lunges at ian with his face hot.

“fuck off, gallagher!” then the little shithead in question is running down the hot sidewalk with laughter pouring out after him, mandy on his heels, and mickey has no choice but to fall in line. 

jesus. always something with these two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, a broken record: pls comment my crops are dying


End file.
